


a clusterfuck of daddies

by vaultboii



Category: Cuphead (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gender-neutral Reader, If You Squint - Freeform, Sexual Tension, Teasing, more tags to be added as I go along, this is literally just me slapping all these short paragraphs into a fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-02-28 19:23:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13278246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultboii/pseuds/vaultboii
Summary: whereas i drop all my /reader paragraphs in here. have fun.





	1. whereas the reader gets beat by mangosteen

**Author's Note:**

> call this the self-indulgent pile.

**1.**

  
" - You," and the words are a husky, low growl, as one hand slammed over your head and the other reached over your retreating walk and halted any further escape. Trapped, you found you could barely twitch without rubbing against a part of him; shifted left, and you hit arm, shifted right and you hit thigh. His chest was only slightly brushing against you, and perhaps you shifted a bit forward to be touching more of him. Perhaps. Not anyone's business if you did or did not. "You absolute piece of work."

The thighs rubbing against your legs were proving to be quite distracting. "Ah?"

Mangosteen leaned forward and jeered. Wrath swelled off the eight-ball in waves; a wrath that could only be accumulated through a constant irritation. Or, in this case, you being an absolute shit and teasing the hell out of him the whole day. His grin was stretched wider than his shoulders. "That's enough," snarled that voice, so deep and demanding, and so, so  _ furious _ . "That's  **enough** ."

Eh. Death was overrated. You touched the thigh, and smirked.

\- and Mangosteen snapped.


	2. king dice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a friend, but i'll drop it here

His hand touched your shoulder first.

“ _Say_ ,” and you couldn’t quite place why King would sound so smug at such a time – but, everyone knew that King’s smugness was a package-deal in mischief, and that knowledge should have you terrified by the smirk edging up. The die wiggled his other hand, waved and pointed index to above the both of you. This gesture came with a purring accompanist; his voice trailed down and taunted playfully in a hiss. “Would you look at _that_.”

You hardly felt the need to look up with King’s voice sounding _that_ way, but curiosity peaked and thus, a quick peek couldn’t hurt. A flash of green told you glancing was a mistake, and that you should’ve walked away while you had the chance. Mistletoe glinted beckoningly over the both of you – and _well,_ King’s smirk had only seemed to expand into a beaming grin.

“Darling, I do believe we have to follow _tradition,_ ” and there was a breath – an extended pause that seemed to stretch on and on as that hand on your shoulder weighed more and more, and you could feel embarrassment creep up into your cheeks. The hand that had been gesturing tucked suddenly, and then there was a gloved hand creeping under your chin, lifting your face upwards to see that smirk gone to a soft smile. King’s thumb brushed over your cheek, and that hand that had been on your shoulder had somehow found its way to around your waist.

And, before King leaned in and claimed your mouth, he whispered one last thing.

“My _lovely darling._ ”

And following tradition seemed to taste of Cognac.


	3. king dice

He doesn’t shy away from asking.

“Could I,” and he removed his gloves; powdered palms smoothly moved forward to tickle your cheek, lift the hairs right up from your arms. The last set of cards set down on the dealer's table, and the patrons bitterly resign to their losses with huffs; however, King doesn’t smile like he usually does at the sight. There’s a fragile look in his eyes; a warm, fuzzy look – as if something had dawned on him, some brilliant moment of ‘eureka’ that had him reeling. His voice was throaty low, hoarse with something you couldn’t quite identify; softened at the edges of raw emotion, it sounded so out-of-place for the die you almost did a double-take. “Could I kiss you?”

He’s never asked before. Somehow, that knowledge made the question even better. You mustered all the smugness you could into one look, and cocked an eyebrow.

King Dice blushed. Honest to god blushed. Those tips of cheeks flared into a purple heat, and shy crept into his smile; green flickered among those bright pupils and died away just as fast. “Your lips look so good,  _ doll _ ,” and he called everyone doll, but it sounded so  _ right  _ when directed to you in such a low confession. The world narrows to two beings; just you, and Dice, sitting on the edge of that bench enjoying the sights of gambling together. His other hand went to gently interlink fingers with your hand. 

“The problem is,” he said as he leaned in, “if I kissed you, I don’t think I’d be able to stop.”

There was only silence in the chaos of the Casino. The soft of glove pressed against your lips; King’s smile tilted, and  _ god,  _ in that second the green was back - fond in the brightest of glow. 

“Then don’t,” came your words. Quiet. Wanting. 

The green flashed; King’s eyes widened, and his mouth slackened into the most wonderful of smiles. The blush was strong - the radiance of his emotions, even more so.

“God, I love you,” he said before he leaned in and,  _ oh,  _ those lips were nice as every time before.


	4. mr. wheezy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao here i wrote this for someone else's thirst and now y'all are having it

“I am not  _divine._ ”

“ _Oh,_ you are,” and hands halt before running over your thighs; Wheezy breathes deeply and shudders as his hands tremble before your groin. There’s a hesitant edge to his touch - almost a craving, longing one that has him readjusting against you, trailing lines into your skin. Barely touching. Smoke rises hungrily from his lips; he’s almost caught aflame by the sight of you, as the cigar kneels before you and presses one famished kiss to the ground before your feet. The cigar barely breaks stance before finally,  _finally_ a hand touches your leg and so gentle that hand is. A kiss barely touches your ankle, barely registers before another is pressed. And another. All the way up to your thigh. Too slow. Too _fucking_  slow.

“My little  _angel,_ ” and Wheezy reaches the shirt that hangs around your legs too large; his shirt, in fact, that clings to you with the smell of rich cigar smoke. A hand hesitates before lifting its way up, tickling against your skin; Wheezy’s bare hands are so warm, burning so goddamn  _much._  “ _My_ little angel,” he growls again, and curves a hand right against your chest. “Mine.”

And the word echoes with you as his hands dip lower.


	5. mangosteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for someone else's thirst again

As soon as the door closed in the hall, and the lilting cheer of jazz echoed through the door was when Mangosteen’s eyes flashed hungrily and that hand on your waist suddenly became a vise. That suit suddenly lunged forward; and,  _ oh,  _ now you were against the wall and Mangosteen was  _ way  _ too invested in the curves of your outfit. There was no other movement between you and him; just the gentle, strong grip of his hand against your waist, and the way his eyes just followed every bit of you. “ _ Lord _ ,” and his voice cracked straight down the middle - shaky, it was starving at the edges just for your touch. “ _ Love,  _ if I knew you were going to look like -”

“Like this?” You brought a hand up to point out the own  _ beautiful  _ gold that adored the edges of that white blazer. And, whilst Mangosteen was caught up in the touch of your fingers against his chest, subtly your other hand went to press against the eight-ball’s stomach and slipped one button loose. 

Mangosteen chuckled, and brought his hand against yours. He didn’t notice how his jacket hung a bit looser. “I daresay you outshine me.”

“Nonsense.” You let Mangosteen get a little closer, and oh, the tricky enforcer had a plan with his hands moving along like  _ that _ . The only course of action was to retaliate, and the coolness of Mangosteen’s cheek tasted fine with the scent of his cologne. The enforcer bent a little at that; hungry eyes turned to starving, and his touch down your spine was a lot more rougher now. 

“I have  _ half an hour,”  _ and when said that way, Mangosteen sounded more and more intent on quitting his job for the night. A hand on your thigh made its way up to your stomach, and tucked under fabric to gently tickle at skin. “That’s all the break time King gives for Fridays.”

“Tragic.” It was the white blazer that was the problem for you. That one loose button was annoying you; it gave a glimpse of that tight-fitting shirt underneath, and whatever was underneath. Your hands also agreed with that;  _ yes, he’d look much nicer if the vest wasn’t closed,  _ you noted. Much nicer. And, as your thoughts raced along, you gradually undid the rest of the buttons until the jacket hung off Mangosteen’s shoulders loosely. “We must use that time  _ wisely,  _ then.”

There was a growl of agreement from the eight-ball at that; teeth gently slid against your collarbone, and traced the shape of your neck. Of course, every action of Mangosteen’s had consequences; that movement gave you just enough room to slip hands on that warm chest and squeeze the softness there. The gasp the enforcer made at that was captivating. The throaty chuckle afterwards was even more so.

“Indeed,” that voice grinned into your ear, “indeed.”


End file.
